Jelly babies pulsating, living,

soft pink,

a single hour of mutated life,

the daughters and sons of blinding light, the bright that sears flesh

‘aloha aina’, love the land.


In the place of the great secret are cemeteries of pearl shells

memories of those whose souls were leached

from a sea-girt isle,

a luminous, watered space

where salt dried swell catches shells.


The palm fronds of imagined paradise,

Have been blown apart

by the Boy who will not name himself

he is a trickster of some might,

dropping snow in the tropics,

as the debris of cold wars

mushrooms above all our Edens.


He is the one, who digs deep,

he has built a tower to reach the moon,

he rears his sons on rifles

muffles his daughters,

but they hear the sound of coral splitting

no longer cover their ears.



their voices reach across the yarn of the ocean

tears turned wise,

clear vision,

brave action,

we love the land

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The home of writer Bronwen Griffiths